


better the one you know

by tribunal



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: F/M, Gen, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 15:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17083280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: "Better not be a body under there, Jacob.""'S not." The blatant lie rolls from him too easily. Asya leans forward, peels back the sheet to reveal dark brown hair."'S looking like a body to me." Peels back a bit more, reveals thick brows and  overlong lashes. High-arching cheekbones that must run in the family, and--"Oh."





	better the one you know

**Author's Note:**

> for an anon sentence request, who asked "john x asya ; good boy?"  
> I can't write John x Asya for reasons briefly talked about in [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16179980), but hopefully upcoming projects will ease the sting. That being said, do enjoy!

Bouncing between the "regions" of Hope County is backbreaking work, dodging Bliss bullets when she's made one sibling mad enough to spit, jumping unspoken lines to serpentine between arrows, holding her nose for as long as it takes for hallucinations to wear off. The first time Asya's caught, it's by the sibling-by-bond, not by blood, and she's fine with that because she'd rather trip the light fantastic and shimmy up with Faith than carve crimes into her skin or the hell it is the eldest does that leaves gaping gaps in her memory that squirm when she confronts them.

She and Jacob had struck some weary alliance that had managed to morph its way into a friendship so fragile, she doesn't dare give voice to it. Doesn't change what he's done to her, to those under her wing. Some things, your brain forces you to remember; hard lessons whose teachings wear painful treads along grey matter. 

They, however, are _not_ good enough friends that she would accept a corpse from him as some bizarre courting ritual. It's her turn on watch, one steel-toed boot nudging Charlemagne ("Christ alive, five-oh, _please_ just call me Sharky, I'm begging ya here") gently into wakefulness, shaking her head with a half-amused smile when his snore snatches up into his nose, his head jerks up and he blusters through half a dozen apologies before she shushes him, tells him not to volunteer if he's so bone-tired. Be safe, Charlemagne, and take the extra sheets out her room. It's supposed to be a cold night.

He leaves, somewhat teary-eyed, and she's on watch, peering through binoculars into the midnight mists of the Whitetails, ears and eyes open for the faintest hint of any Eden's Gate members. It's at the sight of ginger hair that her hands tighten on the binoculars, at the _obvious shape_ of a body bundled in cotton sheets laden in his grip.

She intercepts him quickly, moving from her place on the roof to the shade of forests with nimble footsteps. No hellos are exchanged, just right to business, a brusqueness to their interactions both necessary and a comfort. Times are strange; they can at least rely on the unchanging nature of their selves. "Better not be a body under there, Jacob."

"'S not." The blatant lie rolls from him too easily. Asya leans forward, peels back the sheet to reveal dark brown hair.

"'S looking like a body to me." Peels back a bit more, reveals thick brows and overlong lashes. High-arching cheekbones that must run in the family, and--"Oh."

John Seed is lying prone in Jacob's grip, pale features made sallow by the fairweather light of the moon high above. "Present for me, then?" It's futile to hope; they had this argument over and under and all kinds of way 'round: Jacob won't let her kill his brothers, won't let her kill _Faith_. She owes his youngest some pain, owes the middle brother a bullet in the head, promises the soldier her forgiveness halts where Joseph Seed begins.

"Not likely, Okoro." It's funny; he's called her a myriad of nicknames (as she's done the same to him, usually some profanity or another, if she's allowed honesty), but he obviously favors simply calling her by her surname, a habit that hasn't died even with him being out of the military for probably as long as she's been alive.

Probably. She's not about to do the math.

"He's not doing too well." Ah, astute as ever is the eldest Seed sibling, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a tick Asya would call _nervous_ if not for the heavy set of his brow, the grim thinning of his mouth. Not nervous. Resigned.

"Whaddya need from me, Jacob?" Because, despite everything, she is open palm before closed fist, kindness before brutality. It's what keeps her from becoming him. At least, she likes to think so.

"Joseph can't know." There it is. Keeping the _Father_ from knowing about baby brother's transgressions. She's been there, shielded Frey from prying eyes, covered for her own baby sis more times than she can count. But it was always staying out late or flunking a final, never...Never.

But she despises Joseph more than she does John (maybe; some days, frankly, it's murky), and she wants Jacob to stop looking at her like that. Never like that.

When she goes to take youngest off eldest brother's shoulder, Jacob's fingers twitch. His voice darkens. "If you think this is your chance to kill him..."

"You came to _my_ hideaway." Thick cord of muscle underneath her skin bulges as she hefts John high on her shoulder this time. "Don't test my mercy." A pause. John inhales against her neck, still blissfully unconscious. "Again."

"I'll be back to check on him tomorrow afternoon."

But she's already turned her back to him, determined to make it back in before Jacob realizes how _heavy_ his brother is. "You do that. Bring lunch."

\----

John's the worst goddamned patient Asya's ever had the misfortune of treating. As soon as he realizes it's _her_ and he's lying in the redecorated hollows of Seed Ranch, he starts _cutting the unholy hell up_. It's when she knots off an ugly, open wound that he has the _nerve_ to buck up, tries to spill his blood on her cargo pants, sneering at her as though she could be _bothered_ nowadays by a little bit of viscera! _Oh, John._

She leans in to him, features flickering by the scant candle lit in the room. Couldn't have the lamplight on, Jess would toddle over and wonder why in the goddamn Rook's not on watch (which would be fair and absolutely warranted). So she's got a nagging headache by the time his external wounds are patched up. Bless Jacob if he thought she had some panacea for baby brother's relapse, though. "Might be your old place," Whisper is harsh, cutting the metallic scent caught in the air between them, "But you've got no ground here." He opens his mouth, looks more animated at the possibility of trading barbs than he has the entire time she's been working on him. Bully for him, Asya cuts him off deftly. "Only reason you don't have a few new holes in your forehead is because I owe your brother. But that won't mean a goddamned thing if you're _all_ sharing sheets with worms." Leans back, grabs a bottle of water from under ~~his~~ **her** bed, offers it to him one-handed. "Act right."

When he takes it from her, surliness incarnate, her lips curl, mocking facsimile of a smile. " _ **Good boy.**_ "


End file.
